Before I was a werewolf I was Dyf painting

(Please note, this is the #2 installment of the commercially-sanctioned BBC blog entries that I have agreed (contractually) to write)
(Warning: this blog is rife with introspectively used vocabulary words (see: this sentence))

Before specifically addressing the topic at hand, I would like to, for the moment, delve into the notion that I have a bit of a history of purporting to be something that I'm not (e.g. dinosaur, IRA member/potato-famine survivor, frat boy, Bret from flight of the conchords, etc.).

I have recently come to the painful conclusion that my desire to be someone other than myself is a way for me to mask the sorrow that I feel when I reflect on my somewhat boring day to day life (as in, if you can't find me spooning with with my most probable life-partner Stella, I'm probably studying in Barnes and Nobles while debating whether or not see a movie by myself next door at the Emeryville AMC theater with one of my 10 free movie passes that I received as a credit card reward). Don't get me wrong here though, I'm certainly not complaining, just searching for some sort of reasonable explanation. And it's not as if my life isn't interspersed with the occasional exciting holiday and vacation activities (e.g. nighttime zip-lining in Whistler or 4AM unplugged, solo keyboard playing jam sessions) (see below).

Sadly, today things progressed to the point of: "if [insert exciting event here] happened to me, I would write a blog like this [see below]:

"Staying Strong in the Face of Adversity: How to Cope with a Severed Middle Toe"

I was riding my bike today (with Stella in tow), calmly enjoying a sunny afternoon and trying not to pereseverate on my pending infectious disease exam. All of the sudden, I was distracted by a semi-cute guy driving a purple Isuzu SUV. In the midst of debating with myself over whether or not a guy can still be considered cute if he drives a purple Isuzu SUV, I ran into a nearby curb, foot first, trapping my left middle toe between said curb and previously unmentioned bike pedal. This effectively sheared my toe clean off.

Luckily, there was a gentleman nearby in his front yard doing some gardening. I approached the man, toe in hand, and calmly asked him for a bowl of ice..."Whatever for?" he asked. And I responded; "It's just that, I've severed my toe off and, as they say, 'get in ice as fast as you can.'" (For those of you that don't know me well, I'm an expired EMT so I know things like this. Also, I'm an expired notary if you need my [clandestine] services).

THE END (Sorry to cut it short, this was as far as things got in my head. I'm hoping that the toe was re-attached and I was still able to live a normal, albeit boring life with no change in my gait or disposition.)

And now, in an effort to succinctly address the topic by which I am being "paid" to discuss:

1. Had I been a Dyf painting I would have likely been privy to some of those "family secrets" that we've all been dying to discover (you'll know what that means...actually, probably better than me).

2. It's possible that I am still a werewolf now. As with borderline leprosy (and CA-MRSA/HA-MRSA for that matter), the distinction is always blurring. We all know how much common mysticism and folklore tradition tends to confuse the mythological dinosaur/werewolf creature (yeah, I don't know what the hell this last sentence means either).

Sincerely and apologetically,

The were-rex (or T-wolf) formally known as Dyf.